


On the Same Side

by seenonlyfromadistance



Category: Perry Mason (TV 2020)
Genre: F/F, M/M, Post Season 1, Unresolved Emotional Tension, also yes there is kissing so, hurt/not quite comfort, resolved emotional tension, the gang's all here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:21:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26608153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seenonlyfromadistance/pseuds/seenonlyfromadistance
Summary: If only Pete would really yell at him, Perry thinks, really say what he needs to say, then they’d be able to work it out. They’ll be able to go back to being pals, even though they’re working on opposite sides now. If Della can be friends with Hamilton Burger, then Perry should be able to be friends with Pete. But he can’t figure out how to get there, or what went wrong to begin with, or how to keep from making it worse.
Relationships: Perry Mason/Pete Strickland
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	On the Same Side

Perry’s doing a little investigating of his own. Paul is working another angle across town, hunting down records and names, and Perry is keeping an eye on their client. It feels good to get back to the shoe leather work. He did it for ten years and it’s nice to stretch the muscles again. Like putting on an old, familiar coat. 

He slips around a corner in a diner and catches sight of a familiar hat, wreathed in familiar smoke, sitting in a booth with a newspaper and a cup of coffee. It stops him short and puts his stomach in his throat.

One eye still on his client, he slides into the booth.

Pete Strickland looks up from his paper. One eyebrow lifts as he takes a drag off his cigarette.

Perry hasn’t spoken to him in two or three months, at least. Maybe more. Since that night on the porch of Della’s boarding house. He’s wanted to call a hundred times, but never quite got up the pluck. He doesn’t know what he’d say, anyway. And there was the office to set up, and the new apartment to rent, and the new cases to work… well, the point is that he hasn’t called. It was easy to keep finding excuses. At the end of the day, it just seemed too pathetic to ring up Pete at home and say, _You’ve made your point, I miss you, let's have dinner, can I have my friend back?_

He should be happy for Pete. He should be able to be happy for him, for this good opportunity and steady work, and for how often Burger puts him on the stand to testify, in public, and prove how good he is at his job. It’s not like Perry hasn’t been keeping an eye on the papers. He may have even slipped into the back of the courtroom on the days Pete has testified. Seeing that, seeing how smugly happy Pete seems up on the stand, had been harder than Perry had expected. 

“Perry,” Pete says, like he’s trying to be jovial but can’t quite get there. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Are you following my client, Pete?” Just because Perry hadn’t noticed him until just now, doesn’t mean Pete isn’t tailing little miss can’t-keep-her-story-straight on behalf of Hamilton Burger and the district attorney’s office— and knowing Pete, he’s probably been at it for the better part of the day. Perry’s only been after her since she left his office at two. He’d followed this girl through shops and into salons, for hours, and hadn’t spotted Pete once. But here he is, calm as can be, no trouble no problem. It’s not a coincidence. Not a chance. 

“Are you following your own client?” Pete says dryly, and looks back at his paper. The client in question is seated at the counter, right in Pete’s line of sight. Her name is Barbara Carroll, and she’d come into Perry’s office two days before in distress. Later that day her boyfriend was found dead by the police. Since then she’s barely said a true thing to him. First she lied about being intimately engaged with the dead man, then about her past up north, then about what she'd been up to the day of the murder. Thus, the little follow job. 

Perry has his back to her, but now that he has an eye on Pete he knows that between them they won’t lose her. Or they’ll both lose her, which would be acceptable too. 

“How’s things with the DA?” 

“Very nice, thanks,” Pete says, pronouncing every word like a stab with a knife. “Burger’s a real gentleman. Really respects the work.” 

“Great. That’s great.” It’s disappointing, actually. He’d hoped this revenge job Pete had taken with Burger would’ve turned out to be shitty, so he could entice Pete back. Paul’s great, and he wouldn’t trade Paul for anything, but he’d like to have Pete too. In truth, he misses having Pete around more than he thought he would. Misses his input, his sense of humor. Misses the smell of his tobacco. “That’s swell.” It comes out sounding snide.

“It is.” 

They sit in tense silence. Pete pretends to read his paper, Perry watches him. Pete lights another cigarette and doesn’t offer one. He sips his coffee gingerly. He was never a big eater or drinker while on the clock. 

“You know she’s guilty,” Pete eventually says. 

“I don’t know that. I know she’s my client and she’s paying me to help her.” 

Pete scoffs and rolls his eyes. 

“You’re such a chump.” 

“Now that doesn’t sound like Pete Strickland.” Perry reaches across the table to Pete’s pack of cigarettes and plucks one out. Pete watches, but doesn’t object.

“I just didn’t realize you were dumb enough to let some broad lead you around town by your tie. You think she didn’t clock you?” 

“Hey,” Perry hisses, trying to keep his voice down. Pete’s making no such attempts. If he gets spotted it doesn’t matter; the girl in question doesn’t know who _he_ is. And it would put Perry on the spot, so maybe all the better. Pete just smiles at him like he hopes Perry chokes on his own shit. “She’s a client. She came to me for help, so I’m helping her.

“But you don’t trust her,” Pete ripostes with a jab of his cigarette. “Hence the messy tail job. I thought I taught you better than some of the shit I saw you pull today.” 

“No— you know, I can’t discuss this with you. I shouldn’t even be sitting here.” 

“That’s right.” Pete turns back to his paper, smug as a bug in a rug. “Get your own booth.” 

“Yeah, you know what…” Perry is fuming enough to want to show Pete what’s what, and to do that he decides to blow his own cover, because fuck it. “Fuck you,” he sneers over the table before standing and storming over to the counter. He takes his client by the arm. She jumps in alarm, nearly spilling her cup of coffee. 

“Mr. Mason! What—“

“You’re being followed,” he tells her, turning to point at Pete in his booth. Pete just smiles, friendly as can be. “That man works for the district attorney, and he’s following you around to try and catch you out.”

“Catch me at what?”

“At… whatever! You need to keep an eye out for him, and avoid him. And right now, we’re leaving.” 

He tosses some change on the counter and as good as drags her out of the diner by the arm. Pete waves at him as he goes. 

——

For the next four days, he sees Pete at least twice a day. He’s either somewhere near his client, when Perry meets with her, in the next booth over or half a block down the sidewalk, or he’s lingering outside Perry’s office building or his car is parked around the corner from Perry’s apartment house. 

He’s not even pretending to be secretive or subtle about it. He’s just there, and he waves and makes himself known, and then often as not disappears into a crowd and Perry doesn’t see him again for another five or six hours. 

But Perry knows he’s there. It puts him on edge. He’s never really been followed like this, and it’s almost unbearable spending an entire week looking over his shoulder. He meets with Della and Paul with the doors closed, always in the office and only in the office. When he calls Della from home, he uses a code just in case the phones are tapped. 

“Do you think she’s guilty?” Della asks in hushed tones over the phone one night.

“No,” Perry says. “I don’t know. Pete’s following her.”

There’s a long pause over the line. “Okay. You know that’s to be expected.”

“I don’t like it.” 

“Have you talked to him?” The tone of her voice says she means about more than the case, more than the tail.

“There’s nothing to say, Della.” 

She’s quiet. 

“Do you want me to call Hamilton?” 

“No! Fuck, Della… no. It’s fine, it’s just…” He doesn’t know how to say it to her. That it’s not really that Ms. Carroll is being tailed, not really that the DA is keeping a close eye on her. If it was any other little DA office dick, it wouldn’t matter. Burger has a whole crowd of twenty-five-year-olds at his beck and call to follow people and investigate for him. He has a whole crowd of cases to work on too. Does he have to put Pete on his case? Does it have to be Pete? He doesn’t know how to say any of it, so he grumbles and growls instead. 

Della sighs. “I know, Perry,” she says very softly. “It’s Pete.”

This is what he loves about Della. She really does just _get it_. “Yeah. It’s Pete.”

——

Perry’s just coming out of his office for the night when he smashes hard into a man on the sidewalk who appears, it seems, out of thin air. The guy goes down onto the pavement, hard, and only when Perry bends to try to help him up does he realize it’s Pete.

“Fuck!” Pete groans, letting Perry take him by the elbow and help him stand. His palms are scraped from catching himself on the sidewalk. “Fucking christ, Perry!” 

“What are you doing here?” 

“I’m fucking working, Perry, what are you doing? That bitch client of yours just went into your building. Wasn’t she going to see you?” He grouses and holds his hands stiffly in front of him. Blood is starting to seep in painful looking drops from the heels of his hands.

“No, I… Are you okay?”

Pete glares at him. “Shoving people over a new hobby for you?”

Perry drags his hands over his face. “Pete, come up to the office, why don’t you?”

“Why?”

“Because I want to talk to you, that’s why.” Perry does a little additional grumbling under his breath as Pete brushes off his trousers and blows grit out of his wounded hands. “Come up and wash those out anyway.” 

Pete keeps up his glaring, but his hands sting and he’s considering it. He juts out his jaw and squints and it’s familiar enough it sends a pang of nostalgic warmth through Perry’s heart. 

He concedes: “Just for a minute.” 

A weight comes off Perry’s chest. “Okay. Great. Thank you.”

Perry holds the door and pivots right back into the building. They take the elevator up in silence. 

Perry leads the way down the hall on the third floor. Pete must know which office is his. It wouldn’t be Pete if he hadn’t scoped it out one night after Mason and Associates had cleared out for the evening. Besides… it’s E.B.’s old office, which had miraculously been untenanted for two months when Della started her search for office space. Pete’s been here before, hundreds of times. Opening the door, Perry calls for Della. Pete lingers for a second to read the lettering on the door, then steps in.

“Della? You still here?”

Her voice floats out from his office. “What're you doing back so soon?”

“Bring the first-aid kit out, would you?”

She and Pete say at the same time, “First-aid kit?” 

Perry shrugs. “You know me.” Meaning that Perry takes punches more often than a lawyer should, so it’s handy to keep iodine at the ready. 

Della comes out with the little tin box in her hands, and stops short at the sight of Pete, standing by her desk.

“Pete? Wow, gosh!” She drops the box on the corner of her desk and bypasses Perry to wrap Pete in a hug. He carefully pats her on the back, avoiding getting dirt or blood on her blouse. “Haven’t seen you in forever.” 

“Because he’s working for the enemy, remember?” Perry interjects. Della throws him a dirty look for his trouble and disregards that he said anything. 

“It’s good to see you. How’ve you been? What happened here?” 

She sets about washing his hands out and they chat idly about nothing in particular, leaving Perry out in the cold. Della doesn’t ask why he’s here, or if he’s working. Just washes his hands with alcohol and iodine, laughs when he cringes at the sting, and layers gauze and tape onto the heels of his hands. 

“I don’t know how long those will stick, but it’ll get you home.” 

“Thanks, Della.” 

“Sure thing.” She picks up the bits and bobs and tosses them, tidies the first-aid box and closes the lid. “How’s the wife, by the way?”

Pete smiles, gratified to be asked. “Fine. Appreciates the steady paycheck.” He glances at Perry and Perry pretends not to notice. “Hasn’t threatened to leave and take the kids lately.”

Della laughs. A good, hearty, genuine laugh. She’s doing this to taunt him, Perry thinks. The two of them are in it together. “Glad to hear it.”

Pete leans in and asks, sotto voce, “How’s Hazel?”

Della softens and warms at the mention of Hazel, and certainly at Pete’s rather stilted discretion. “She’s good. I’ll tell her you said hello.” 

Pete gives a crooked, warm grin. “You do that. Thanks for the patch job.” 

“Of course.”

“Okay, that’s enough, Della, thank you.” Perry sweeps in to brush her away. Della and Pete aren’t supposed to be friends. It’s unfair. “Now clear out, would you?”

Della makes eye contact with Pete and they share a look. A Isn’t-Perry-Ridiculous look that frustrates the hell out of him.

“Say hi to Ham for me, Pete,” Della says as she collects her coat and her handbag. “Tell him I’ll call him.” 

“Della!"

“I’m going! You’re being a brat, Perry, and I want you to know that. Make sure that kit goes back where it belongs.”

She struts out, closing the door firmly behind her.

Perry huffs. Pete leans against Della’s desk and lets his hands rest palm up on his thighs.

“So what did you want to say to me?”

Perry takes a deep breath. The set of Pete’s jaw says that he’s expecting an apology. 

“I want us to be on the same side,” Perry says. 

“We can’t be on the same side,” Pete sniffs, “because you’re a defense attorney and I work for the state prosecutor.” 

“We both want what’s right, right? We want the truth, we want justice. I don’t need you hassling my clients all the time just to bug me.”

Pete barks out a mean laugh. “Is that what you think I’m doing?” 

“You’re casing my client, you’re casing my office! You’re everywhere, Pete! What am I supposed to think except that you’re actively trying to get in my way and sabotage my work.”

“You selfish prick.” Pete shakes his head. He picks at the edges of the tape on his hands. He’s too calm and Perry is too worked up too fast.

“Excuse me?”

“I couldn’t be casing your client because she’s a fucking _murderer_ , right? God forbid.” 

“Pete, come on.”

“No, you know--” he straightens up off the edge of the desk. “I’m going. I don’t know what I thought I’d get from you up here.”

“Probably some dirt on my fucking client!” 

Pete looks pretty well disgusted with him. Shaking his head as he crosses to the door, he says, “Forget it, Perry. Just forget it.”

He’s got a hand on the door handle when Perry’s frustration bubbles to an uncontrollable head. 

“Some fucking friend you are,” Perry sneers. Pete stops still. His back tenses visibly. “Some fucking friend who abandons me and then fucks me over.” 

Pete stands for a moment, mulling it over. There’s a thousand things he could say, a thousand things to stand up for himself and put Perry in his place, but he doesn’t bother with them. Instead, he opens the door and steps through, stopping just to look up and say, without even much malice, “Fuck you, Perry.” 

Though he does slam the door so hard the glass rattles.

Perry stands by the desk, staring at the door. 

If only Pete would really yell at him, he thinks, really say what he needs to say, then they’d be able to work it out. They’ll be able to go back to being pals, even though they’re working on opposite sides now. If Della can be friends with Hamilton Burger, then Perry should be able to be friends with Pete. But he can’t figure out how to get there. He’s had two chances (or three or four or five, depending on how far back you go), and each time he’s gotten worked up and said the wrong things, and Pete has listened to them, calm and patient, and then walked away. They used to fight like alley cats, and those fights always shook out to nothing. These quiet fights are something else, and something he doesn’t know how to get past.

Perry retreats to his office and hops up to sit on the long conference table. It was always his favorite spot to perch when E.B. was his boss. He lays back and stares at the old, familiar ceiling.

He misses Pete. Misses their easy banter, he misses having someone who knew him inside and out. He misses when they used to go to the movies on E.B.’s dime. He misses late night stake outs and early morning breakfasts. He didn’t appreciate it at the time, but he misses it now. He doesn’t even entirely get what he did to ruin it. He was a little shitty and unappreciative, but why was this the time that Pete couldn’t get over it?

His client came into the building, Pete said. But not to see him. He hadn’t passed her in the lobby. So where did she go? 

With a groan, Perry sits up and goes to collect the building directory. 

——

Perry takes his client to meet with the district attorney, and Pete is there. He stands in the back of the meeting, behind Burger’s desk, in a corner. He picks at scabs on his hands and chews at the inside of his mouth. 

It’s infuriating. 

“That man has been following me,” Barbara Carroll says, pointing to Pete. 

“That’s right, Ms. Carroll,” Burger says, very calmly. “You’re a suspect in a murder. Now the courts have let you out on your own recognizance, thanks to the work of your wonderful lawyer there--” He nods politely to Perry-- “But that doesn’t mean that I don’t still want to have an eye kept on you. That’s where Mr. Strickland comes in.” 

Pete shrugs. There must be more important investigating for him to do, instead of just tailing the girl in question. 

Barbara Carroll looks between him and Burger, looking worried. 

“You don’t need to sic Pete on her,” Perry says. “We’re here because I’m trying to make it clear that she’s not going to flee the city, she’s under my supervision, and your investigator can go on his merry way. We’re being very cooperative given the harassment you’ve subjected my client to.” 

Burger smiles. “Harassment? Please. Mr. Strickland, have you even spoken to this woman?”

“No.” 

“Have you touched her?” 

“No.” 

“Where’s the harassment, Mr. Mason? I don’t understand.” Burger folds his hands under his chin and waits. Perry doesn’t have a good answer here. He’s just riled up. 

“I don’t want to see Pete around again, Burger. I don’t appreciate that you’ve let loose your dog on my client and my business.” 

Burger glances over his shoulder at Pete, who shrugs like it doesn’t matter to him. Perry knows him well enough to see the distaste simmering under the surface. He doesn’t like being called a dog. Who would? “So you won’t see him.” 

“Fine,” Perry spits. Burger didn’t agree to call Pete off, just that he’ll remain invisible. “Fine. But if I catch even a sight of you,” he says directly to Pete, “I’ll beat the shit out of you.” Burger raises his hands in offense, but Pete doesn’t move or flinch. It’s not a real threat, and Perry probably couldn’t take Pete in a fight anyway. His extra few inches don’t do much against Pete’s scrappy nature. Perry’s seen him fight-- he bites. Perry turns to his client. “Let’s go.” 

She stands and carefully collects her handbag. Perry guides her out firmly and maybe too quickly. She totters a little on her heels to keep up. 

They’re out the door and halfway down the hall when Burger’s voice echoes after them.

“Mason!” Perry stops. “A word please. Just us.” He tells his client to wait where she is and makes his way back to Burger’s office.

“What is it, Ham?” 

Burger leans against the wall and looks at him from under his eyebrows. “Don’t take out your issues with Pete on me or this office, alright? I don’t know what hard feelings you’re harboring, but I don’t appreciate the jibes thrown at my lead investigator, or the implications about the way I do business. And honestly, I don’t appreciate the threats either.” 

“He’s been nipping at my heels for days, Ham. What’s he even looking for?” 

Hamilton raises an eyebrow. “You know I won’t discuss that with you.” 

“You tell him to drop whatever hard feelings _he’s_ harboring, and we can all go back to getting along.” 

“Mason, I want to be able to work with you. There’s no reason we have to be antagonistic. You’re smart. You’re better than this. Pete works for me now, and not you, and that’s all. He does his job and I do mine. And you do yours, and your investigator does his. That’s how it works. It’s not personal.”

“It is, and you know it.” 

Burger purses his lips in something that looks uncomfortably like pity. 

“Perry, this is embarrassing. I can’t believe I have to be the one to say this to you, but you need to apologize for treating him badly when you were working together, and let him yell at you, or whatever he needs, and work it out. It’s complicated enough in the courtroom without,” he makes a vague gesture, “all that too. I won’t have you two sniping at each other across a witness box.”

Perry huffs. 

“You can be stubborn, or you can figure your shit out and make life a lot easier for all of us. Have a good day, Mr. Mason.” Burger gives another little smile and turns back into his office, where he’s no doubt going to have some kind of talk with Pete. Or maybe the two of them will have a good laugh at his expense and close up the office early. 

Perry lets it steam him for a minute, standing in the hall outside Hamilton Burger’s office. Stupid Burger and his stupid jawline and his office full of sharp jawlines. Him and Pete and their stupid fucking superior attitudes and their infuriating fucking faces. 

His client is still waiting down the hall, clutching her handbag and chewing at her lip. 

There’s work to do. If Perry and Paul can prove her innocent, and Pete is tagging along as a secret observer, let him. Let him see how innocent she is. Fuck him.

—— 

Paul spends most of Friday chasing down Ms. Carroll’s ex-husband, a Hollywood guy named Robert Shawn, who she of course neglected to mention. He finds the guy holed up in a motel in the valley, and calls Perry to come scope it out with him.

This is how Perry finds himself shoulder to shoulder with Paul in Paul’s car, sharing a flask of old sherry. 

Paul is telling stories about his new baby, not yet six months old. He talks about his baby’s little feet, his little fingers. How he's just starting to babble. Perry tries not to think about Teddy, who he hasn’t seen since the spring, and tries not to think about the time eight years ago when he sat in a car with Pete while Pete said the same things to him after his first little boy had been born. Little feet, little fingers. 

Both of them keep their eyes on the door to the ex-husbands motel room, so if Perry’s eyes get a little misty Paul doesn’t see it.

They sit there for hours, occasionally seeing a rustle of curtains. Once Mr. Shawn comes out to have a cigarette under the stars, then goes back in.

Then there’s a knock on the window. Perry jumps in his seat, then freezes up. 

It’s Pete. He’s wearing that plaid coat of his, and his hat which has suddenly developed a fray along the brim. He looks pretty begrudging to be there.

Perry doesn’t move, just sits there holding his flask in his lap and gawping at Pete standing outside the car. 

“Could you--” Pete makes a gesture. Paul leans across the car, over Perry who is clearly not going to move or help or do anything, and cranks down the window. Pete leans in to rest his arms on the window frame. “Sorry to interrupt.” 

“What do you want?” Paul asks, when Perry clearly can’t. He’s too busy looking at Pete’s profile.

“Thought you’d want to know your client just slipped in the back.” He jerks a thumb towards the motel. 

This brings Perry back to the present. “What? Fuck.” Paul groans and he and Perry exchange a look. One of them is going to have to go check. 

“Pete, what the fuck.” 

“If that guy in there ends up dead, you’re gonna owe me another apology, Mason. I’ll add it to your tab.” 

Paul groans and opens the door of the car. “I’ll go look,” he tells Perry. “Don’t smoke in my car.” 

Pete stays where he is, leaned against the car door on Perry’s side.

“Why do you think your client is here? Reuniting with the ex… That’s funny, isn’t it? You don’t think she and her ex killed that new boyfriend, do you?” 

“Lay off, Pete. Don’t be an asshole.”

That Pete knows the man in the motel is Ms. Carroll’s ex-husband irks him. Doesn’t surprise him, but annoys him. Of course he knows. One step ahead like always. He probably had some guy on the ex for two days before Paul picked him up.

Pete shrugs. They watch Paul slip up to the motel and angle himself to see through the crack in the curtains.

Pete starts ticking off points on his fingers. “New boyfriend has an ugly reputation. New boyfriend doesn’t provide like the good old ex-husband does, doesn't treat her nice. Ex-husband wants her back, and when she calls him up he’s willing to do anything to get her back. She asks for help with something nasty. He does it because he loves her. Bye-bye new boyfriend. What do you think about that?”

“I think she’s in a jam,” Perry grumbles. It’s not a bad argument that Pete’s making; if the DA can make it stick, Perry’s client is in trouble. 

“Oh, she’s in a jam, alright.” Pete smiles and quietly pulls out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He rolls one around between his fingers, taking his time with it, before putting it between his teeth. 

“Don’t smoke that here.” 

Paul is fussy about smoke in his car. He doesn’t like the stale smell when it settles in. His wife doesn’t like it either. 

Pete rolls his eyes and wanders off a few steps. When he lights his cigarette, the glow from the flame washes his face in orange light. It brings out the crows feet around his eyes, the hard lines around his mouth.

Now is not the time to try and make another attempt at repairing his relationship with Pete. Maybe there’s no repairing it. Maybe it’s simply too broken. Perry angles himself so he can lean out the window and watch Pete smoke. Pete was a constant in his life for ten years. Seeing so little of him now, and then having these heated, antagonistic spurts, is disorienting. It doesn’t feel right. He’s no longer used to not having Pete in his life. Ten years is a long time to know someone. 

He’s still watching when Pete startles, dropping his cigarette. “Oh shit,” he says, already in motion. “There he goes.” 

He jerks his head in the direction of the motel. Perry follows his eye-line to see a man running down the walk along the building. It’s the ex-husband. Paul is six feet behind, sprinting to try and catch up. Pete is running a second later, going at an angle to try and cut him off. It takes Perry a little too long to catch up with what’s happening and even longer to fumble his way out of the car and go running after Pete. 

Paul and Pete collide against the ex-husband at the same time. The three of them go crashing to the ground in a heap. Pete rolls away, groaning, and Paul manages to get his knee in the man's back to pin him to the ground. Perry trots up at his own pace. 

“Why did you run? What good does that do?” 

The ex-husband gives a grunt. Perry puts a foot on his back so Paul can get up.

“Paul, will you go check on Ms. Carroll? If she’s still there?”

Pete remains in the grass, laying flat on his back, as Paul heads off.

“You okay down there, Stricks?” 

Pete groans. “I’m too old to be tackling people.” He rolls his head to look at the ex-husband, face down in the dirt. “Don’t you think so?”

The ex-husband gives another grunt. Perry gives him a little grind with his heel.

“Let’s all not chat, okay?” 

By the time Paul comes back with Ms. Carroll in tow, Pete has sat up and is rubbing at his knees. Paul brings up the lady in question with an arm on her bicep. She looks embarrassed, mostly, and a little annoyed. When she catches sight of Pete, her expression turns fully indignant. 

“What’s he doing here?” 

Pete makes a face and Perry steps in. “More importantly, Ms. Carroll, what are you doing here?”

She blushes, and it’s actually quite pretty on her. “Visiting a friend.” 

“We’ve discussed that now is not the best time to go visiting, if you recall.” She slowly nods. 

“I needed to see him.” 

“Why’s that?” Perry still has a foot on the man in questions back. “Who’s he to you?”

“Just a… A friend.”

“What kind of friend?” Pete asks from the ground. 

“Stay out of it,” Perry says to dismiss him. He and Pete used to do this kind of one-two number. A double-act to catch out lies and inconsistencies. It worked well. Perry doesn’t quite have that same easy report with Paul yet. It’ll get there, he’s sure, but it’s not there yet. “Ms. Carroll. You have to be honest with me if I’m going to help you.” 

His client looks him over, sizing him up. She’s radiating nervous energy. Paul keeps a hand on her, half thinking she’ll run and half thinking she’ll faint. She squeaks, “He’s just a man I know.” 

A scoff comes from Pete on the ground. A loud one. “He’s your goddamn husband.”

“No!”

“Ex-husband. But he’s not just some man. We know that already.” 

Her mouth falls open, she looks around, hunting for a good excuse, a way out. “He’s… He’s…” 

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Paul says with exhaustion. Ms. Carroll shuts her mouth with a snap. Pete hauls himself to his feet. He bends to look at the ex-husband. 

“It’s not worth it,” he says to the man. “You can do anything for a gal and she won’t thank you for it. Won’t thank you, won’t apologize for anything, won’t do jack shit. Do yourself a favor and let her go.” 

Perry feels it like a kick in the guts. It’s pointed, and it’s pointed at him. 

“Okay, you two,” Pete says as he straightens up. Thoughtlessly, in passing, he pats Perry on the ribs. “I’m going home. Hope you had some fun. Drake, nice to see you.” He taps the brim of his hat in a little salute and saunters off back along the motel. Apparently he got what he needed tonight. 

“Fuck.” Perry takes his foot off the ex-husbands back and even helps him sit up. 

“Bobby had nothing to do with it, Mr. Mason,” Barbara Carroll says, leaning down to put a hand on Shawn’s shoulder. He looks at her with a kind of warmth that turns Perry’s stomach. “I swear he didn’t. He was just trying to help me.” 

“Yeah,” Perry begrudgingly agrees. “They always are.”

When he looks up along the hotel again, Pete is gone.

——

He doesn’t see Pete at all, anywhere, for two weeks. In the meantime, Hamilton Burger swings by the office to show off an arrest warrant for Perry’s client and her ex-husband. 

“The murder weapon was found in his motel room,” Ham drawls. “Pretty bad look.” 

“I’m not representing him,” Perry says. “In case you forgot. His gun, his motel room. His problem.”

“She was there, as you well know.” Ham smiles, perfectly smug. “She could’ve given him the gun, or come to collect it. Even if she didn’t pull the trigger herself, she’s certainly an accessory, or I could charge her with conspiracy. I respect your commitment to your clients, Perry, but you have to know when a cause is lost.” 

“It’s not lost,” he grits. “She didn’t do it.” 

Burger laughs. 

“We’ll see what a jury says. Just thought you’d want to know. And if you know where your client is, don't whisk her off to some hotel to hide out. Please encourage her to turn herself in. I'm tired of having to hunt down your clients.” He leaves the copy of the warrant on Perry’s desk. His smug smile perfectly in place, he collects his briefcase and stands to leave.

“Hamilton--” Perry stops him. Trying to be casual, he says, “How’s… How’s Pete?” 

Burger’s smug smile turns pitying. “You can call him,” he says. “I’m not exactly a messenger service.”

“Ham, come on.”

On his way out the door, Burger tosses back, “I’m not getting in the middle of this.”

Perry hollers after him, “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

——

Ham must say something to Pete, because Pete shows up a week later. The sun is setting and Della has gone already. Meeting Hazel for dinner or something. Perry’s sifting through some last bits of paperwork. Paul dug up some interesting stuff about the murdered man’s business dealings, which imply an awful lot of enemies beyond an unhappy girlfriend. Bad business with some bigwig crooks should be enough to create reasonable doubt.

Perry was just thinking of getting really drunk tonight and sleeping on the sofa when the knock came, followed by Pete in his nice blue pinstripe jacket that brings out the color of his eyes.

“Perry? You got a minute?” 

Feeling pretty sour, Perry starts to put together this briefcase like he’s got somewhere to go. There’s the night ruined. It’ll be awful to drink at home in his new apartment that still feels more like a hotel. “What do you want?”

His client is in jail, he can’t get her a reasonable bail no matter what he tries, and now he can’t even get drunk in the office. 

“Wanted to give you this.”

Perry is busying himself in the back office— he watches Pete flash a piece of paper and leave it on Della’s desk. 

“Your girl’s out.” 

It takes a second for Perry to catch up to that statement. When it does he hurries out to see what Pete’s brought him. It’s a notice of release and a note from Ham saying he’s dropping the charges against Ms. Carroll. _Nobody wants the innocent found guilty_ , the note says. 

Perry looks up at Pete’s face. It doesn’t make sense. “I don’t get it.”

“Turns out your little client didn’t kill him is all. Those bank records you dug up? That business license? We followed it farther and it turns out the dead guy was working with the mob.” Pete says it like it’s barely interesting. Like he’s not saying that Perry and Paul’s work actually proved his clients innocence. “Seems like the mob killed him to shut him up. Pinned it on the girl. We’re working on getting some names and dragging some guys in. But the girl is off. She can go back to her ex or move to Arizona or do whatever she wants.”

Perry clicks his mouth shut from where it had fallen open. “Wow, Pete, that’s… that’s great news.” 

Pete shrugs. “Figured you’d want to know. Burger sent me over.” 

_Didn’t want to get in the middle, my ass_ , Perry thinks. Ham sent Pete over as an olive branch, with good news, so Perry could try again to patch things up. 

“Thanks, Pete, really. Thanks. And I, uh, if I could say—“ 

Pete arches one eyebrow and Perry falters. Sure he’s going to fuck it up, he stumbles trying to say, “It’s really good to see you, and…” He thinks of all the things he’d imagined saying to Pete over the last few months. All the desperate pleas and cold dismissals. All the fantasies that ended in showing him the door, and the more common fantasies that end with Pete forgiving him and Perry’s hands in Pete’s hair. “I’m really glad you’re happy with Burger. At the DA’s office. I mean, that’s a good fit for you, and I’m… I’m happy for you.”

The office is silent, save for the rumble of cars on the street outside. Pete blinks at him. 

Coldly, he says, “Thanks Perry. Thanks a lot.” 

He tried, didn't he? Didn’t he try to say the right thing? _Fuck._

“Pete, please. What can I say? What do you want me to say?”

Pete’s face tightens. He puts his hands on his hips. For a long moment, Pete chews at the inside of his cheek and paces back and forth in front of the door. 

“You really don’t get it, do you?” He’s said that before. Perry didn’t get it then and it’s true he probably doesn’t get it now. He feels like a fish on dry land, gasping for a life line. 

Pete says, very quietly to the floor, “I was supposed to be your fucking partner, Perry, and you threw me over.”

“You’re the one who quit.”

Pete manages to ignore that. “You got your fancy new job and your fancy new investigator, and I wasn’t good enough for you any more. Suddenly you’re a lawyer and ten years together doesn’t mean shit.” 

Perry flounders. “Pete, you know how hard that case was, on all of us— It wasn’t that I didn’t want—“ The obvious point requires repeating: “You're the one who told me to hire Paul! You’re the one who walked out on me!” 

Pete scoffs and throws his hands up.

“Cut the bullshit, Mason. You were supposed to be my _friend_ , and you treated me like _shit_ , for _months_. You drag me around, you tell me my work is crap, and you don’t even use what I get you— Then to top it all off, you have me do this thing that’s… _wrong_ , and I do it, for you, and for what? You didn’t even need it.” 

“What are you talking about?”

“You had _three_ jurors, Perry.” He raises three fingers to demonstrate his point. “Three holdouts. Not just one, remember? Three. You had me do your shitty dirty work and you didn’t even need it.”

“Pete, I didn’t know that I would have the other two. I needed you--”

Pete stares at him, his expression somewhere between disgust and disbelief. 

“Yeah, you needed me because I was your only friend dirty enough to bribe a fucking juror.”

“Pete, no--”

“And you had it on your own. You have me do something so fucking shitty and you didn’t even need it. Fuck it.” He paces around the office, agitated. This, Perry thinks, has to be better than the cold stillness of their last few talks. It doesn’t exactly feel better, but at least it’s got some honesty in it. “You did it all on your own. Good for you. Hero lawyer, Perry Mason.” On paper this might be praise. Coming from Pete’s mouth, it’s an accusation. It’s a death sentence. 

“Christ.” Perry reels, wandering around the desk to sit in Della’s chair. Pete had been a cop, at a time. He quit because it was, as he had once told Perry, all bullshit. It wasn’t justice, being a cop. Pete has a real sense of justice. It’s why he worked for free for weeks during the Dodson case, why he put everything on the line. Probably why he went along with the bribery to begin with. Because Emily Dodson didn’t deserve to hang. 

How long did it take for Pete to go to Burger for a job? The day after their fight behind his house? Two days? Or did Burger approach him? Sidle up and say, _Don’t you think you deserve better?_

Pete did deserve better. He didn’t deserve to get yelled at and disregarded. _Fuck_. Perry stares at Della’s desk blotter and tries not to break to bits. 

Pete is still pacing the room. His face is crumpled up. He takes a shuddering breath, and Perry watches him get himself under control and put back on the cool, distant face he’s been wearing with Perry for the past month. “It’s done now, anyway. We’re done. It’s over.” 

“Pete, wait-- That case… I know I wasn’t the best to you, but I was going through a lot, with the farm and--”

Pete wheels on him. “And you could’ve let me help, or at least talked to me about it. But instead you kept me in the dark and you treated me like some lackey. I thought we were something, but it was pretty clear when I got back from Denver that you didn’t think that way. That you thought of me as just some degenerate dog who could do dirty work for you.” His jaw works as he figures out the next part. Perry, feeling pretty dirty about it, waits. Pete’s right. Perry passed the bar and he didn’t know how to be with Pete anymore. He only knew how E.B. had treated his investigators. At arm's length. “You give me a hard fucking time about those romance stories but you know… they’re right about one thing. You shouldn’t stay with someone who doesn’t respect you. It’s not—“ He frowns, hard. Sadness trembles across his expression. “It’s not love if they don’t respect you. So you gotta walk away while you can.” 

Perry’s guts are in rebellion. He feels about as queasy as he’s ever felt. It wasn't just about justice. This is the part he was missing, the part that really mattered. It was about love. It wasn’t about the case, or the work. It was about them.

And Pete’s right, of course. It’s not love if there’s no respect. And he was pretty fucking disrespectful towards Pete from New Years on. He’d just been so rattled… the dead baby, the thread, the case, the murders. E.B. His whole life in shambles. All of it had gotten under his skin and wound him up and he just couldn’t talk about it. Ten years of friendship and he couldn’t share how he felt with Pete. Pete who shared all sorts of things with him and would’ve listened to anything. 

Well, not any more. 

“Pete, I’m… I’m sorry.”

“You just don’t get it,” Pete grumbles. He’s out the door. “You never got it.” Another failed discussion. At least, Perry thinks, there was some headway here. Some new information. Something to get. 

Pete loves him. That’s the big thing they’ve been dancing around that Perry had been missing. Brotherly or romantic (and _Christ_ , if Perry’s heart doesn’t skip a beat at that concept) or whatever, Pete loved him and thought Perry loved him too. Which made Perry’s dismissiveness and disrespect all the more painful. Perry took advantage, and Pete loved him enough to let him. For a while. Not forever. 

And Perry couldn’t see it and so Perry fucked it up.

——

A week goes by where Perry tries to figure out what to say to Pete. How to call him, how to get him to agree to meet. How to explain that he messed up, that he’s sorry. 

But he can’t figure it out, so he doesn’t call. He knows the longer he waits, the worse it will get, but he just can’t figure it so he can’t do it. He’s paralyzed. 

When the phone rings around five one evening, just as Perry is closing up, he jumps at it. The voice on the other end is garbled and far away, and he doesn’t recognize it at all. 

“Hello? Who— Who is it?” He's trying not to shout into the handset but his patience is being tried. 

The voice on the other end coughs out an address, out in the hills. Perry scrambles to find a pencil and write it down. 

“Come,” the voice says. “Or else.” 

“Or else what?” Patience fully burned away, Perry scoffs. This is a lot of dramatics and it’s not impressing anyone. “I’m not scared of some voice on the end of a line.” 

“Not yet.” And then the line goes dead. Immediately, Perry rings the operator to try and reverse the call, or get the number or where it was calling from, or anything.

But the operator can’t, or won’t, help him. “The canyon, sir.” she says. “But that’s all I can give you.” 

“I already know that,” he grits at her and hangs up. So all he has is this mysterious address and this mysterious missive. He stares at it, tapping the paper with the sharp tip of his pencil. He shouldn’t go. Della would tell him not to go. Paul too. He absolutely shouldn’t go alone.

But he’s curious. Damn, but he’s curious. Curious as a cat.

So he goes. It’s a long drive but at least the sun stays up so he can drive and reference the road atlas simultaneously without running off the road.

At the address in question, down a winding road that carves its way into the hillside, Perry pulls up to an empty lot. He circles around and parks, aiming for a quick get away. Down the way there’s another car parked, a familiar black car complete with a familiar hunched form sitting on the hood, smoking. 

Perry cuts his way up. “Pete? What the fuck are you doing here?”

Pete looks up. “I might as well ask you the same thing.” 

Waving him close, they quickly exchange stories. Mysterious phone calls, insatiable curiosity. 

“Doesn’t sound good,” Pete grunts.

“It’s pretty isolated out here,” Perry notes. Pete just hums in agreement. 

It’s quiet. No cars, no chatter. Just quiet. Like out at the farm was, Perry thinks, before the airfield. Neither of them speak. It’s not as uncomfortable a silence as Perry might have expected. It’s almost nice. 

The quiet is cut by a low rumble. It gets louder until a lumbering black limousine trundles up the road and parks further away than Perry’s car. In sync, he and Pete both squint to try and read the plates. A group of four rather large men in very nice suits come out of the car. Of course, Perry thinks. The mob is not generally very happy to be caught out by a couple of gumshoes and a smarmy lawyer. 

“Misters Strickland and Mason, I presume?” The lead one says when he’s close enough. He’s a big guy. His strong neck seems about to bust his collar. 

Pete and Perry nod. Pete is still perched up on the hood of his car. He grinds out his cigarette on the footboard. 

“Not quite the full house we expected, huh, fellas?” The big guy shrugs and his cronies shrug and laugh. Perry supposes they might have expected misters Drake and Burger too, but those two were wise enough not to show. “But it’ll do.”

“What can we help you kids with, huh?” Pete jabs. 

“Nah, nah. We’re here to teach you a lesson.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Pete—“ Perry is starting to get a bad feeling. They’re outnumbered and alone, in the middle of nowhere. Pushing these guys' buttons might be a bad call. 

They’ve both taken beatings before, of course. But Perry thinks this one would be particularly nasty. These guys look like mobsters. They look like killers.

But Pete is proud, and reckless, and decidedly unafraid. He slides off the car to plant solidly on his feet.

“Hey guys, let's all just talk this out for a second.” Perry puts his hands up and steps forward, trying to be casual. “Let’s all be friendly here.” 

Perry doesn’t see it fast enough, when one of the guys on his left jumps him. There’s a lot of movement all at once— there’s the guy coming at him, his friends moving forward too. Someone, it must be Pete, grabs the back of his jacket and pulls him out of the way of an incoming fist, which goes wide and smashes into the side mirror of Pete’s car. 

Perry spins backward and hears his name be called as he clatters back against the car. Fully jostled, Perry watches dumbly as Pete catapults forward, putting himself in front of Perry and right in the line of danger. His fists go up, but it’s four against two and those are never good odds. 

Perry sees a fist meant for him slam into Pete’s face. Pete jerks backwards but keeps his footing. There’s a bloom of blood under his nose. Pete takes a punch to the jaw, another into his gut. Knowing vaguely that he has to _do something,_ Perry steps forward, into the fray. Pete is putting up a good scrap, but he needs help. A big lug gets an arm around his chest even as Pete kicks out with a foot, catching another one in the guts and forcing his captor off balance. Perry gets a man by the arm and pulls him away; another shoves Perry hard enough to knock him off his feet. He clatters back against the car and cracks his head against a door, and maybe the footboard too. It all goes black pretty fast then, and Perry misses the rest. 

——

When he comes to, the sky has changed color. Never a good sign. Every part of him hurts, but especially his head and his knees, which probably hit the ground when he dropped. He groans, feeling with numb fingers at his face and the back of his head. There’s a pulpy spot behind one ear, but no major damage. No broken fingers and his legs both still work. That’s a good start. His suit is probably ruined, but that’s just how it goes sometimes.

He rolls gingerly on to one side, looking around for signs of what happened. The ground shows signs of a scuffle, there’s loose dirt and footprints and a few spots of blood, and… Pete was there, Perry remembers. Pete tried to protect him. 

He shifts a bit more, trying to look around without moving his head too much. Pete’s car is there, not more than ten feet away; Perry’s car is not there. He can’t remember if it should be. The limousine is gone too. Then he spots a lump, a crumpled body, away in the dirt. It’s wearing Pete’s jacket and is curled up very small. One hand is curled around it’s head. The hand has a smear of blood near the fingers.

Perry’s heart skips in his chest. For a moment, he isn’t sure he can move. What he might find is a specter he doesn’t want to face. But curiosity overwhelms the horror, just like it always does. He has to know. So he manages to crawl over. 

“Pete?” his voice sounds minuscule, even to himself. The body doesn’t move. “Pete?” He shakes the shoulder gently, then harder. Nothing. Very carefully, he rolls Pete onto his back. 

He looks awful. His face is bruised and bloody. His right cheekbone is cut open and misshapen, and the eye above it is swollen. There’s blood and dirt matted in his mustache. But he’s breathing, which is a good start. Perry carefully loosens Pete’s collar and puts two fingers against his throat, feeling for his pulse. It’s there, steady and strong. A wave of relief goes through him. 

“Pete, come on.” Perry puts a hand to Pete’s less injured cheek and pats lightly. The skin is cool under Perry’s palm. “Pete please.” 

Slowly, painfully, Pete comes back to consciousness. One eye opens. 

“Hey,” Perry wants to be positive, be comforting. It’s clear that something is broken in Pete’s face. Perry gently feels at the bone beneath the swollen eye, just barely touching to try and feel if there are loose shards or a clear snap of bone. Pete gives a high pitched mewl of pain. “Shh, it’s okay. It’s okay.” He can’t feel anything except the swelling. His fingertips are covered in blood. “You need to go to a hospital. I’m going to take you to a hospital okay?” 

Pete looks at him through his swollen, battered face and nods. 

“Perry,” he rasps. There’s blood on his teeth. “You okay?” 

It’s absurd, it’s remarkable, it’s beyond belief. Perry could kiss him, except that it would hurt him too much. He wants to cry he's so relieved and he wants to cry he’s so moved by Pete’s concern for him. The past few weeks had felt like there was no going back. But Pete still cares about him. He wouldn’t have taken this beating for him if he didn’t. His first thought wouldn’t be about Perry’s well-being. 

“Oh Pete.” He thinks he’d like to stay like this all night— this close, this intimate, one hand still on Pete’s face, looking into Pete’s eyes. Except that one eye is swollen shut and turning purple, and he needs medical attention better than Perry can provide. “Okay, let’s get you some help.” 

Perry is wobbly when he gets to his feet, and it takes some real work to get Pete up too. He’s not much help, which is reasonable given the state of him. Perry gets an arm over his shoulders and heaves, and Pete grits his teeth to try not to scream. 

“My ribs,” he groans against Perry’s neck. “Fuck.” 

“Okay, it’s okay.”

Perry carries him to the remaining car— Pete’s car, battered and dented more than it was an hour ago but still there and still with all it’s tires— and gently lowers him into the passenger seat. Pete folds himself up around his battered ribs and Perry carefully shuts the door.

“Perry.” 

“Yeah?” 

“I’m glad you’re here.”

A long moment passes while Perry’s jostled brain spins its wheels. “Me too.”

The drive to the hospital is too long, and no matter how smoothly Perry tries to drive, every bump in the road causes Pete to cry out in pain. Perry’s never seen Pete this fragile before-- Pete has always taken his beatings with good humor and a tough acceptance. A few bruises were tough, were proof of an adventure. This is different. This was a professional kind of beating. Most people you get in a fight with barely know how to throw a punch, and so while it might be uncomfortable, it’s not so bad. This is very bad. A broken cheekbone and busted ribs hurt plenty. Maybe it’s worse than just that, too, Perry thinks. God knows what else there could be. 

Pete doesn’t speak. It clearly takes all his concentration not to pass out again. His face hurts and he can barely see. The world around him is a blur. He’s starting to feel nauseous. 

“Perry,” he groans, hoping Perry will know what he means. 

Perry glances over, feeling a spike of panic. Pete looks pale under the bruises. Pale and sick. 

“It’s okay,” he says. “We’re almost there.” He reaches to put a hand on Pete’s leg. “I’m here, it’s okay.”

The hand stays there until they pull up to the hospital. 

Carrying Pete inside causes enough alarm that pretty quickly there are three or four nurses there to take him off Perry’s hands. Under the bright lights of the hospital, Pete looks even worse. 

He’s swept away and Perry struggles to keep up. “That’s my friend,” he says to any nurse that will listen. “You have to let me stay with him.” 

But they don’t. 

Perry lingers in the lobby, pacing and waiting for someone to come out and talk to him. Eventually he calls Della. She says she’ll come, and that he has to call Pete’s wife, he can’t put it off. He hesitates with the operator before he asks to be connected to Hamilton Burger at home, who says he’ll go over to Pete’s house and be a help there. He calls Paul and describes the car the assailants were driving, asks him to try and find it, or find who it’s registered to. And for god’s sake, to be careful about it. 

Finally, he calls Ruthie. It’s well after 9, and she answers with annoyance in her voice.

She recognizes his voice. “Well,” she says, “Mr. Mason. I hope you know where my husband is. He said he was just going out for a minute, but I should’ve known he’d end up wrapped up with you--”

“Ruth, listen for a minute--” 

He tells her where Pete is, and what happened, and tells her Burger is coming, and he can watch the kids so she can come to the hospital. 

“He’ll loan you his car, Ruth. Or he’ll drive you and the kids here, all together. Or... whatever you want.” Is one of the kids old enough to watch the others? He can’t remember. 

Ruthie is quiet for a long moment. The line buzzes. Very calmly and very steadily, she asks, “Is he going to die?” 

Perry’s breath hitches. In a voice less steady than hers, he tells her, “No.” 

——

Della comes and very carefully takes him home. 

“It’ll be okay,” she tells him over and over during the drive to his apartment house. “He’ll be okay.” 

—— 

After three days of dithering, Perry goes to visit Pete. He calls Ruthie first, and asks miserably if Pete is home yet. She coldly tells him that he’s not. So he calls the hospital and asks about visiting hours and protocols, and then he shows up.

A very nice nurse at a desk gives him a room number and points him down a hall. The whole place is too quiet for Perry’s taste. Too sterile. 

Pete’s room is in the middle of a long hallway, and Perry slips in through the open door. 

Pete is laying in the pristine white bed, clean and pale, propped up among more pillows than Perry has ever owned in his life. His face is looking a little better, from a distance anyway. The swelling around his eye has gone down, but isn’t gone entirely. There’s a black smear that covers his lower eyelid, all the way to the corner of his eye. The rest is purple and blue and green. The cut along the crest of his cheek has been stitched shut. He looks like he’s sleeping, and for a moment Perry considers just leaving. Let Pete rest and sneak out before he can embarrass himself. 

While he’s thinking it over, Pete’s unbruised eye opens. 

“Perry,” he says in a rusty kind of way.

“Hey.” Caught out, Perry goes numbly to Pete’s bedside. There’s a chair and he sits in it. “How do you feel?”

“Not bad.” He gives a crooked smile. “The nurses give me lots of nice injections, so sometimes I feel pretty good.”

“Private room, too,” Perry says. “Fancy, fancy.”

Pete gives a tired smile. “I think Burger swung it.” 

“How’s the eye?” 

One shoulder lifts and falls. The eye in question remains closed. “Doctors say I’m lucky to still have it. One shard of broken bone could’ve… popped it, I guess.” 

“But you can’t open it yet?” 

“Something to do with a pinched nerve or… something.” He seems a little woozy, which is reasonable enough, Perry figures, given the aforementioned shots. He’s probably in a haze of morphine, which might account for why he’s being so amenable and friendly. “It’s okay.” 

“That’s... that’s good.” Perry stares at his hands. He doesn’t know what else to say. Seeing Pete alive and more-or-less well is about all he’d planned for. He hadn’t gotten as far as the conversation part. 

“What’s that?” Pete tips his head towards the thing Perry’s holding in his lap. Feeling embarrassed about it, Perry brings it up and lays it on the edge of the bed. 

“Newspaper. There’s a new one of those stories you like, and I thought… might be nice. For you.” 

Pete takes in the paper and Perry. 

“Can’t read.” 

Perry lifts his eyes to Pete’s face and it makes perfect sense. His one eye is swollen shut and the other is hazy and blurred. Of course Pete can’t read right now. 

“Fuck, I’m sorry—“

“You read it. I’ll listen. Unless you got somewhere to be.” 

And maybe he does, but it doesn’t seem important. More important is an hour with Pete where they don't yell at each other. More important is a little gesture that Perry hopes shows that he cares. 

He nods and opens the paper. 

The story is another shopgirl romance. This time the girl is a poor girl who moves to the big city and gets a job in a flower shop, where she meets a rich widower who is so wrapped up in his grief he can’t see the appeal of the beautiful girl who makes the bouquets he takes to his wife’s grave. 

It’s cheesy and predictable, and Perry isn’t a great cold reader. Not like Pete is. Perry mispronounces things, stumbles over his words and has to go back. Pete listens patiently, his eyes closed and a whisper of a smile on his lips. 

Partway through, a nurse comes in with a syringe on a tray, covered in a little white cloth. 

“I told you, Mason,” Pete says as the nurse very professionally puts it into Pete’s veins. “Now I’ll pass out in about twenty minutes, right, nurse?” 

The nurse smiles. “That’s right, Mr. Strickland.”

“Stuff puts me right out,” he tells Perry. He nods at the newspaper. “You better finish that up before it does.”

Perry tries to read faster, which makes his reading worse. But he gets through it. The episode ends on a little cliffhanger, where the girl has to choose between time with the emotionally unavailable widower and some other schmuck. Perry carefully folds the paper and puts it on the small bedside table. He’s not sure what to do next. 

Pete pries his one good eye open. 

“Mason,” Pete says, a crooked smile vaguely plastered on his face. “Close the door, will ya?” 

“Why?” 

“Because I want to talk to you, is why.” 

If they have to talk with the door closed, it must be important. Or sensitive. So Perry floats to his feet and over to the door, and closes it with a click. He goes back to his chair and sits in it and waits for Pete to speak.

“Come here.” Pete gestures with one hand, and Perry leans in. Pete gestures again and Perry leans closer. Close enough to whisper, close enough to feel Pete’s breath against his face. 

“Pete?” 

Pete looks at him with one unfocused eye. The look he’s mustered is warm and even affectionate. Perry puts his elbow on the bed for balance and his fingers land on Pete’s arm, above the elbow. He feels when Pete’s muscles contract as he lifts his hand, feels acutely the moment when the hand touches the back of his shoulder. Pete pulls him even closer, and this, certainly, is why he had Perry close the door.

“I’m gonna kiss you,” Pete murmurs, and then he does. 

It’s a funny kind of a kiss, partially because Pete’s foggy on drugs and currently has no depth perception, so he doesn’t quite land it right. His mouth hits the corner of Perry’s mouth, firm and purposeful. Perry waits, feeling Pete’s lips against his mouth and cheek, feeling his breath. Neither of them move for a long moment, and then Pete shifts to put his cheek to Perry’s. They stay that way like a couple in the movies, cheek to cheek, feeling each other breathe. When he can’t stand it anymore, Perry brings a hand to the side of Pete’s face and gently moves him so the angle is better. So when he kisses Pete, he does it properly. 

It’s very chaste, because Pete is high on morphine and can barely see him. 

But it’s marvelous too. 

It’s like a dam breaking. It’s like the missing piece that suddenly makes it all fit together. 

Perry sighs out all his nerves. He presses his forehead to Pete’s and then retreats. Pete is smiling a vapid, dreamy smile. Both eyes are closed. 

“How high are you flying?” Perry asks. 

Pete laughs. “Pretty high.” 

“I’ll save the big speech then.” Pete’s hand is still on his shoulder. 

“Give me the highlights.” Of course, even on morphine, Pete wants his apology. Well, Perry thinks, he about fucking deserves it. 

“I didn’t treat you right. You were my partner and you were always there for me, and I… took you for granted. I didn’t appreciate what you did. All the way back. I never appreciated you enough.”

“That’s right.”

“Christ, Pete, I really am sorry. If anything happened to you, I’d… I don’t know what I’d do.” 

“You’d wait three days to come see me.” 

“I’m sorry about that. I was… I didn’t know if you’d want to see me.” 

Pete, still smiling a dopey smile, fumbles with one hand to cup Perry’s jaw. His fingertips brush at Perry’s hairline and flutter over his ears. 

The hand runs through his hair, messing up careful combing. The fingers tighten and Perry lets himself be pulled close again, close enough to be kissed, which he is. It’s more on target this time. Pete’s lips are dry, but pleasantly so. 

“Perry,” Pete says against his mouth, “I miss you.” 

“That’s the morphine talking,” Perry replies. He wants to be joking but it lands flat. Too close to the truth to have much real levity in it. Pete is out of his mind on painkillers, Perry thinks. Pete won’t remember this tomorrow, won’t remember his apology or this kiss or his fingers in Perry’s hair. 

“I’m still mad at you,” Pete mumbles, still lip to lip with Perry. If he were a really good friend, and not a selfish one, Perry would put a stop to this before Pete could do something he really would regret. “But I love you.” 

“Oh Pete…” Perry steals one more kiss. He has to stop. Pete is so blurry it feels like taking advantage. But Pete’s hands are still in his hair and on his shoulder, and Pete’s mouth is still a breath away from his. 

“I mean it,” Pete mumbles. He’s drifting off. The morphine is dragging him to unconsciousness. “I want us to be on the same side,” he says vaguely. 

“Are you gonna remember this?” 

“Yeah,” Pete says. Perry finds it hard to believe, but it’s nice to imagine. That they could just skip to fixed because Perry brought a newspaper and Pete got high enough to make a move.

——

Once Pete is asleep, Perry lays his head at Pete’s hip and watches him breathe. Pete’s hand is settled in his hair, and it’s about the most marvelous thing Perry could imagine. Maybe he should leave; maybe he should have left twenty minutes ago. But he can’t bring himself to disrupt Pete’s hand, or his sleep, or to stop looking at him. 

He hears the door creak open too late to move and save their reputations. When he does hear it, he whips his head up. His face is hot like a flash fire. Pete’s hand slips back onto the bed. 

It’s Hamilton Burger standing in the doorway, his eyebrows way up on his forehead. His mouth is pursed tightly, knowing and pleased and astounded at once. 

“Mr. Mason,” he purrs. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Burger, I-- I can--” Can what? Explain? There’s no good explanation. Just the truth. Burger gestures thoughtlessly with one hand as he saunters into the room, closing the door again behind him.

“No need, Mason. Just be a little more attentive to your surroundings, hm? I’m pretty sure you don’t want the scandal.” 

Perry tries very hard not to look absolutely flabbergasted. Burger, calm as can be, does a circuit of the little room. Not finding another chair, he perches casually on the edge of the bed. His expression has softened into one of placid amusement.

“Oh Mason, I should have guessed it.” 

“Guessed what?”

“That all this cattiness was just a bad break up.” He smiles like a fox in a hen house. “I’m glad to see you two have made nice.” 

Perry’s face is burning up. Surely he’s flushed. Maybe he could have had this conversation with Della, but Burger… 

“I— we— that’s not quite it.” 

Hamilton’s smile softens. “He’s sweet actually,” he says. “Having gotten to know him. Not really my type, but—“ he shrugs and looks at Perry. “Good for you.” 

“No it’s…” Perry tries to figure out how to explain it. It’s not something he’s ever tried to discuss before, and it’s not like he and Pete just had a big heart to heart. It’s not like they agreed on anything. Perry stares at Pete’s hand resting on the sheets. “He’s on a lot of morphine.” 

Burger rolls his eyes. “Mason, please. Once he’s out of here, take him out, take him home, fuck his brains out, get it over with.”

“Hamilton!” 

Ham laughs at him-- quietly enough to not wake Pete. A gentleman, always. “Don’t be scandalized. We’re in the same fraternity, aren’t we?” 

The switches in Perry’s brain finally click together. Burger is… like Della. Like him, really. God, Perry thinks. What a funny bunch they all are. 

“Oh.” 

“Oh.” Burger echoes, playfully. “Yes, oh. You’re really very stupid for someone so smart, Perry.” 

“I know it.” 

Burger, still smiling calmly, pats Pete on the ankle. “Here, Mr. Mason, is a man who, I admit, under less... extraordinary circumstances, I don’t think would make the first move. Given that he didn’t for ten years of your association. Circumstantial evidence, perhaps, but I think it would convince a jury.” Hamilton as good as winks. His soft smile has quirked. “But, now having gotten past that first move... I expect once you got past all the firsts, the two of you would do very well. Oh, stop blushing, you’re embarrassing _me_.” 

“I’m not quite used to this kind of talk.”

“Too forward?” Perry shrugs. “I’ll restrain myself.”

“No, it’s— I appreciate your… advice,” he ends lamely. “I just haven’t… And it’s… it’s complicated.” 

“Yes, I’m aware.” 

Perry looks at him and sees only patient friendship. None of Burger’s snide dismissal or smug pretension is present. Just a kind feeling of understanding. _This is how you do it_ , Perry thinks. _Be friends with the enemy._

Of course Ham and Della had it figured out first. They’re smarter, obviously. In lots of ways.

“Ham, I… It’s not like we were… together. Before.” Burger just nods and waits for him to continue in his own time. “But it was… I mean he was... He—“

“He loves you.”

“I guess.”

“Congratulations,” Ham says, very dryly. “And then you two had a fight and he came to work for me, and now it’s been months, right? So what happened here?” He gestures to the two of them, to Perry still leaning over the bed, too intimately close to Pete to be entirely innocent. 

“I came to see him.”

“And?” 

Perry stares at the bedsheets. Why is this so embarrassing? Why does it feel like pulling teeth to say it? 

“He’s hopped up, remember,” Perry says, sure that that’s important. That whatever Pete might have done or said while under the influence of mind-altering narcotics shouldn't be taken for truth. It can’t really be real, Perry thinks. He’ll take it back the moment his head is clear. Or he won’t remember at all. “He kissed me.”

“Well there you have it.” 

“I don’t know that he meant it.”

Burger lifts his eyebrows. It’s not a mean expression. It’s almost a little sad. Like it’s obvious to everyone in the world but Perry that his doubts and fears are foolish and without cause.

“Let’s say he did mean it,” Hamilton says kindly. “How do you feel about it?” 

“You’re as good as a therapist, aren’t you?” 

In his best courtroom voice, Hamilton Burger intones, “Please answer the question, Mr. Mason.” 

But he can’t. He tries. He opens his mouth, but no words come out. He knows how he feels, of course, more or less. That Pete is one of maybe four people he’s ever loved and he was stupid to not realize it sooner, and not stop him from walking away. And he knows he can’t go on the way they have been. He can’t be angry at Pete, can’t be parted from him. Wants him back. But he can’t say it. He tries to come at it from a different angle, and manages a few words: “It’s like I didn’t know. And then I did.”

Burger nods slowly, like that makes sense to him.

“And what are you going to do about it?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Right. Well, you have my advice on the subject.” Hamilton pats Pete on the ankle again. “I’ll leave you to it. Tell him I stopped by, would you?” 

Perry gives him a last, tragic look. Ham smiles at him, not quite laughing, and then steps out the door.

It’s quiet again. Pete shifts in his sleep, turning his face. Perry very carefully lets his hand settle over Pete’s, and stay there. 

——

Perry stays, carefully on edge for the sounds of footsteps in the hall, until the evening nurse tells him visiting hours are over and asks him to leave. Pete is still asleep, with no signs of waking. Taking out his pen, Perry considers writing a note, but when he puts the nib to the margin of the newspaper, nothing follows. A black splotch bleeds through the paper before Perry lifts the tip. On a different piece of margin he writes, _See you soon. -PM_ . He hesitates for a moment and then adds, _PS Burger was here._

It’s nothing, but it’ll have to do. 

On the way out, he slips into a phone booth in the lobby, folding himself into it, curling around the mouthpiece as he waits for Della to answer. 

“Hello?”

“Hello, Della. It’s Perry.”

“Hello, chief,” she says in that dry way of hers. She’s taken to calling him that, and though he knows it’s at least half ironic, he sortof likes it too. “Where’ve you been?”

“I'm at the hospital.”

“Visiting or checking in?”

“Visiting.”

“I see.” He can nearly hear her smile over the phone. “How is he?”

“Okay—“ He tells her about the eye and the morphine and all that and then he makes himself as small as possible and puts himself deep into the very back corner of the booth. “Della, he kissed me.” 

There’s a long silence. 

Finally, she says, quite slowly, “That’s good, isn’t it?”

He taps his head against the glass, hard. “Christ, why does everyone find this so obvious but me?” 

“Because we’re outside of it.” Her voice is very soft, and he wonders if she and Hamilton have talked about him. About him and Pete. What they’ve decided, or determined, about them. “It is good, Perry.”

“Is it?”

“Of course.” 

“Della, I… don’t know what to do.”

“Don’t overthink it,” she says, patient as ever. “Come over and we can talk about it more.”

“Yeah.”

“And Perry?” He grunts in acknowledgement. She says firmly, “It’s good. It’s a good thing.” 

He grunts again. 

——

Pete is in the hospital for another four days. Perry calls a few times and swings by once. 

The police arrest four mobsters who Perry goes to identify. Three of them are familiar faces. Burger stands next to him, exuding an aura of self satisfaction.

As they walk out of the station, Burger says to him, “Perry, together I think we can put a lock on organized crime in this town.”

“How’s that?” 

“If you keep pissing them off enough to come beat you up, but not enough to kill you, we’ll have them all identified within the year.”

“Har har, Hamilton,” Perry says. “Aren’t you cute.” 

“I do try.” 

"Think you'll be able to convict any of those guys?"

Hamilton shrugs. "We'll see. I hope so."

“How about my truck? Found that yet?” The gangsters stole it when they left him and Pete in the dirt, and it hasn’t shown up. He’s been taking cabs everywhere ever since, which is starting to add up to quite a bill. 

“Not yet. Maybe you should take it as a sign to get a new car.” 

“A coupé.” 

“That’s right,” Hamilton smiles. “A nice car for a nice lawyer. Instead of that old scrap heap. It doesn’t make a great impression.” His truck was the last remnant of the farm, but Burger’s probably right. It’s time to let it go. Hamilton pulls on his hat and stares for a moment at the sky. It’s that time of year when the sunsets are red. “You know, Strickland gets out of the hospital tomorrow.” 

Perry nods. He did know. He’s been turning over in his mind what he should do about it for a day and a half. How long to wait before trying to call, before asking him out to dinner. Last time he saw Pete, he was just able to open his bad eye and was feeling pretty good about that. It’s not exactly a full return to health.

Hamilton watches Perry’s face work through the thoughts. 

“You know my advice,” Hamilton drawls, after it’s clear Perry doesn’t have anything to say about it. “Don’t wait too long.”

“You’re really no help at all.” 

“Not so,” Ham smiles, all innocence. “I’m very helpful.” 

——

He calls two days later, thinking that giving a day to get settled at home is probably good form after an extended hospital stay. It rings and rings, and then, finally, thankfully, Ruthie isn’t the one who answers the phone. They agree to meet at Perry’s office and get dinner downtown. 

Perry stands around outside, waiting, for what feels like an hour. His wristwatch seems to disagree, but it might as well have stopped for all the good it’s doing him.

Finally, a figure comes sauntering up the sidewalk, all ease. After a week of picturing Pete pale and small in a hospital bed, Perry’s heart lifts at the sight of him in a shirt and tie, wearing a coat Perry doesn’t recognize, barely bruised at all. Clean and sharp and perfectly put together. Very Pete. 

He looks a lot better. He’s got his color back, at least. There’s that new scar under his eye, but it’s pretty dashing. The big thing, really, is that he’s shaved his mustache.

“You shaved,” is the first thing Perry says to him. It’s shocking. The mustache had been a fixture for years. He can’t help himself but to say something. It just falls out of his mouth. 

“Yeah,” Pete makes a gesture like it’s nothing. “What do you think? Makes me look old?”

“No,” Perry is quick to say, because it doesn’t. Pete is aging, sure, everyone is, but the sudden appearance of his upper lip certainly doesn’t make him look older. It makes his whole face seem less sharp. Not quite as honed at the edge of a razor. That softening makes him, maybe, look younger. “No, you look… you look great. I almost forgot what you looked like without it.” 

“Like this,” Pete say, tilting his head to show himself off. 

“It’s good. It’s… really good.” 

They have dinner, like old times. They don’t drink, aside from a lingering cup of coffee after the meal. Perry wants to be clear-headed for whatever follows, even if it’s just a miserable cab ride home. 

“You’re paying for this, right?” Pete asks with a twinkle in his eye. When Perry doesn’t bite, he adds, “I’ve got all those hospital bills—“

“Of course,” Perry hurries to say. If he were standing he’d be tripping over his own feet. “And I’ll help with those, if you want. I can— I could pay them.” 

“I’m not asking.” Pete puffs up a little. His pride, Perry sees, has been a little dented. “I’m just saying. You ask me to come out, you can buy me dinner. But if I get myself bashed up, I can pay for my own hospital stay. Burger’s paying me pretty well, you know.”

“Okay,” Perry retreats, nervous he’s ruined it again. He twists his coffee cup in its saucer; suddenly his tie feels too tight. “Got it.” 

“Thanks though.” 

“Pete, I’d—“ Before he can say what he started (something to the effect of, _I’d do anything for you_ ), Pete silences him with a gesture. He shakes his head. _Not here,_ the head shake says. _Not now._

Standing on the sidewalk, Perry coughs and says, “you should see my apartment.” 

Pete lifts an eyebrow. “Is this you trying to be subtle, Mason?”

“I mean, you should come by. If you want. Have a nightcap.”

There's a pause, barely more than a beat during which Pete blinks at him, before he shrugs and says, “Yeah. Okay.” 

Pete drives. His car is still missing a headlamp. Perry sits in the passenger seat and wrings his hands and gives directions. It’s a long enough drive to get him panicking. That Pete will change his mind once they get there, or... something. But the night had been nice so far, hadn’t it? No blow outs, no anger. And Pete had agreed to come. 

And Pete stands with his hands in his pockets and looks up at the front of his apartment house like it’s no big deal that he’s there. 

And Pete loves him. 

“Nice building.” 

“I make a little money now too,” Perry says, holding open the door. Pete nods and steps in. 

He takes in everything as Perry leads him to the elevators, shows him up. Walks him down the hall to his apartment, number 702, unlocks the door and waves him in. 

Very awkwardly, Perry gives him the grand tour. The living room, the view out the windows, the kitchenette with its little breakfast nook. The desk, the books. The fireplace. Then the bathroom, which Pete appraises with genuine appreciation. 

“You’ve really got it all, huh?” He taps at the countertop thoughtlessly, looking around at the brass taps and the big tub.

Perry says, “No.” 

Pete turns to look at him. His right eye is squinted a little. Maybe it’s been like that all night. Maybe that’s how it is now, permanently. A little squinted over a little scar. 

“No?” 

“Pete…” He steps in. His shoes clack onto the tile floor. This isn’t exactly the location he would have picked, but it might be the only opportunity he gets. Under the bright light in the bathroom it’s suddenly clear that Pete’s new jacket is a dark green. It’s very elegant. He reaches out to touch Pete’s cheek, his scar. Pete flinches away from his fingers. His mouth tightens, his jaw works. Then his head comes back and he puts his cheek to Perry’s fingertips. He looks up through his eyelashes. He holds steady. “Pete, I don’t—“ 

“Don’t say it,” Pete sighs. He fits his cheek to Perry’s palm. “You don’t have to say it. Too cheesy even for me.” 

It takes almost nothing, nothing at all, to pull Pete close and kiss him. 

It’s slow at first. Gentle. Tender. Hesitant nearly. The whole world disappears outside of Perry’s marvelous bathroom. It narrows in around just the two of them, to Perry’s hand on Pete’s cheek, to Pete’s hand reaching out to barely touch Perry’s waist. For a moment, for Perry, all there is in the world is Pete’s tongue against his. He slides a hand around Pete’s waist and pulls him close, holding him tightly. 

“Careful,” Pete sighs and Perry inhales it. “Ribs.” 

“I’ll be gentle.” 

Pete takes a sharp gasp of a breath. The phrasing, maybe. It gets Perry’s blood going too. 

Quickly enough Pete gets an arm around his shoulders and a hand tight in his lapel. He kisses fervently, like a man starved, and he’s good at it. They stumble against the door frame, Pete’s back against the wood and Perry crowding him, and kiss and gasp each other’s names. 

“Come on,” Perry groans against Pete’s jaw, feeling the press of Pete’s thigh between his legs. “The— the bedroom.” 

Pete just nods. 

They make their way down the hall blindly. Pete loses his beautiful green jacket along the way and Perry’s jacket joins to mingle on the floor. 

Pete gets a finger hooked into the armhole of Perry’s vest to pull him over the threshold. 

His bedroom is big, which is why he rented the apartment to begin with. Room for a big bed. After years of sleeping in his childhood single, the move to this apartment meant Perry insisted on an adult size bed. It’s plush. He picked it that way. Della had told him once to stop punishing himself. His first move in that direction had been to stop sleeping in a small, uncomfortable bed. 

Pete pauses for a moment to take in the room and Perry takes the moment to take in Pete, lingering to watch as Pete scans over the coverlet, the painting over the bed, the dark wallpaper. His face is flushed and his hair is ruffled. He looks just like Pete Strickland, and like no one else, and he’s here in Perry’s bedroom, and it’s magnificent. Perry kisses the back of his neck.

Then Pete takes his hand and drags him to the bed, and they get to it. 

——

Hamilton’s right: once they get through all the firsts, they do splendidly. There’s some awkwardness, sure, because they don’t entirely know each other’s ropes, and because Pete’s ribs are still sore and tender. Perry makes a point to lavish them in soft affections. Slightly ticklish, Pete squeaks when Perry’s mouth brushes just the right spot. They go through an entire pack of cigarettes between them.

Pete lays with his head on Perry’s stomach, smoking the last of the last cigarette. 

“You’ve put on some weight,” Pete says as he hands the cigarette up. Perry takes it and taps off the ash. 

“I eat better now that I can afford it.” 

“I can’t come back to work for you.” He says it so suddenly it takes Perry’s brain a good ten seconds to catch up. 

“I didn’t ask you to.” 

He understands now, in a way he didn’t before, why Pete can’t work for him. He gets it. They have to find their equal footing again. They have to build something new, something purposeful. Something that has nothing to do with work and everything to do with each other. 

“Alright.”

He runs a hand across Pete’s forehead and watches as Pete closes his eyes and follows his touch. 

“Work doesn’t have anything to do with this. And it won’t, I promise.”

“Yeah. No problem.”

“Pete,” Perry says, insistent. “I mean that I don’t want to fight like that ever again. I couldn’t stand it. I…” He can’t quite figure how to say it, and ends up saying, “I want us to be on the same side.” 

Pete looks at him from under one sharp eyebrow. His eyes are very clear.

Pete says: “We are.” He turns, putting his forehead against Perry’s ribs. The feeling of his breath against his skin sends shivers right up to the top of Perry’s scalp.

He sits up, leaving Perry’s stomach to the evening coolness, and runs a hand through his hair. The sheets pool around his waist. He looks a little worn out, Perry thinks, but in a good way. Tired, sure, but sated. Rooting around in the bedsheets for his underclothes, Pete says, “I gotta call Ruth. Where’s your phone?” 

Perry’s heart skips and plunges into his stomach. It was going well, wasn’t it? More than well. And now—

“She worries,” Pete is saying as he shakes out what appears to be Perry’s shirt. “Especially after all this.” He gestures vaguely at his face. “I gotta let her know I won’t be home. What? What’s that face for? You want me to leave?” 

His expression has turned guarded, at least. Verging on defensive. Perry’s own expression, he figures, is one of horrified dismay. 

“No, no, I—“ Perry shakes his head vigorously. “No, don’t go. I don’t want you to go. You could stay forever and that’d suit me.”

The defense melts away into warmth. 

“Phone’s in the living room,” Perry hears himself say. “On the desk.” 

“Be back in a minute.” Pete pulls on his undershorts and leans to kiss Perry, a thoughtless, idle touch of intimacy, before ambling out to make his phone call. 

Perry watches him go, watching his shoulder blades, the dimples in his back above his hips, the old scar from the war along his side. The stiff sort of bow-legged walk of his made stiffer by broken ribs and the evening's activity. 

“Hey Pete, wait—“ Perry calls after him and Pete pauses, looking back over his shoulder. “I love you. Too. I mean. So you know.”

The smile that cracks across Pete’s face is maybe the best thing Perry's ever seen. Wide and bright and true. Only a little crooked and only a little bashful. 

“Thanks. That’s… it’s nice to hear it.” 

“I do. And I’m sorry.” 

He shrugs, still looking at Perry with that deep well of warmth. Pete’s always had that for him, of course. Perry just didn’t recognize it for what it was. He couldn’t look at those soft expressions, often so close to his face, and see that there was love in them. He can now. 

“Fresh start, right? On the same side.” 

**Author's Note:**

> probably I will write fifteen fics of these two getting together bc it brings me joy and no one can stop me from writing the same thing over and over again with only vague variations
> 
> also can u tell I was not interested in really figuring out a case for perry to work? sry to erle stanley gardner but i aint u


End file.
